


Coda for  Coppélia

by Fishwrites



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Ballet, Child Abuse, Domestic Violence, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-23 21:36:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10727730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fishwrites/pseuds/Fishwrites
Summary: Lee Unwin had been a darling of the Royal Ballet. They all thought Eggsy was a chip off the old block. But that was years ago. His mother remarried. (in which Eggsy dances in secret and tries to audition with the best of them; Harry doesn't want to retire and Merlin has been wrangling divas for too long).Art by RachelHuey





	Coda for  Coppélia

**Author's Note:**

> The story written in collab with RachelHuey for a ballet AU artbook [**available** **here**.](http://rachelhuey.tictail.com/product/pas-de-deux-illustration-fanbook)

_“Those who were seen dancing_  
were thought insane by those who could not hear the music.”  
– Nietzsche

:i:

 

The thing is, Eggsy could still remember Richmond Park.

He could remember the broad generous windows and the bright sunlight. The smell of polished wood in the studio, next to polished manners and polished children. He could remember being part of a row, at the barre, Ms. Fraser’s hand adjusting his arm quickly but firmly, ( _“For goodness sake, you’re not a sack of potatoes Unwin – your elbows cannot possibly weigh that much.”_ ) and praising his turn-out ( _“A chip off the old block, aren’t you?”_ ).

And he _was_. A chip off the old block. Because Lee Unwin had through the School and the Company; two solos before his second year was out.

Then he died in a car-crash, as mundane as you please.

That part Eggsy could not remember, too young. But he did have a few recordings, grainy and far away; a blond figure, tall and graceful. A few left over programmes, pressed safe between the covers of an old magazine. A pair of left over shoes; a chipped cake of rosin. A shoe box his mother didn’t touch anymore, frayed with tape and heartbreak.

 

* * *

 

_Camden, London._

The more advanced classes were generally in the evenings, and the last one ended at 9pm. Eggsy liked to watch, even though he knew the routine off by heart by now. But he liked to watch, liked the feeling of slowly working at all the steps, all the basics, the slow rise and arch of feet _en pointe_.

He stood, out of sight of the main doors and the viewing area where parents for the younger kids usually sat, waiting for class to finish. One wall of the studio was covered in floor to ceiling mirrors, and Eggsy had long learned that he could watch the class from there – without being in the way. He leaned the handle of the mop against a clothing hook, and listened to the familiar music wheeze through the gap in the door, tired but faithful.

There weren’t any boys in this particular class – they dropped out faster – only six girls in faded pink, blue and grey. Tchaikovsky: Eggsy watched them fold back upon each other in staggered movements, then one by one tipping into an arabesque, mimicking the slope of an arpeggio with the arch of their wrists.

Eggsy’s own hand twitched, and he blinked them still.

The class ran for just an hour. It was a small class; a small studio stuck between damp brick wall and the sound of traffic this side of Camden. All too soon the girls were leaving, pulling on warm coats and comfortable shoes. They didn’t spare Eggsy a glance as they came out of the studio, chattering and uncapping water bottles. Their teacher paused, seeing Eggsy there with the newly filled bucket and mop.

“Don’t stay too late, Unwin,” she said, buttoning the collar of her coat.

Eggsy bit the inside of his lip.

“Yes ma’am.”

Her eyes strayed to his tatty canvas bag, tucked out of sight beside the bathroom door. For a moment, Eggsy thought she might say something; maybe he forgot to turn off the light yesterday and the arrangement was over?

“And I don’t want you going away from the barre with those shoes. You’ll break your neck.”

“Yes ma’am,” said Eggsy, relieved.

“…or worse. Your ankle.”

Eggsy grinned at her. She didn’t smile back, but did shake her head and turn, bag in hand. A moment later, Eggsy was alone outside the ballet studio, with only the scratch of an empty CD and the sound of old light-bulbs for company. He picked up the mop with a sigh, dipped the handle in the bucket, squeezed it dry between the handles with a practiced pull – and got to work.

 

* * *

 

It usually only took Eggsy half an hour to clean and dry the studio floor, vacuum the waiting rooms and wipe down the mirrors. It took another half hour to clean the toilets and empty all the rubbish out front.

He came Wednesdays to Sundays every evening, cleaned for £20 a night and the privilege of dancing in the studio afterwards. _Today was a good day_ , thought Eggsy, as he changed out of his cleaning clothes and into a comfortable pair of shorts and a well worn t-shirt. It wasn’t even half past ten yet.

Sometimes, he’d get there late and would be too exhausted to dance by the time he had finished. Worse still, he’d get there to find the whole place locked up already. But today was a good day.

He sat down against the wooden wall, held his own feet one by one to do his stretches. Then he plugged his phone into the stereo, sitting atop an old upright piano.

Eggsy took a long breath and held it inside his chest, thumbing through his playlist with a practiced hand, to settle on Max Richter for warm ups. He was barefoot for the moment, his toes still blistered and sore from yesterday – he had spent two hours afterwards amending the new-but-not-new shoes.

He rubbed one eye with the back of his hand, resigned to soft shoes until he could lean weight on his toes without wanting to cry.

Making his way to the barre, Eggsy avoided the eyes of his own reflection, concentrating on the press of his own ankles and his plié. He closed his eyes and tasted the rosin at the back of his throat. He wriggled his toes, still wrapped up with strips of thin towel; felt the pull of the blisters and the burn where the skin had rubbed raw.

The music swelled slowly, ebbing with the air in his lungs. Eggsy squeezed his eyes shut, until there was nothing left except the outline of his own body and muscle memory. He lifted himself with the arch of his hand, tracing the strings and their turning crescendo.

When Eggsy stood still, there was the monotonous tick of the hour, the smell of alcohol in the house and the _waiting, waiting, waiting_ for Dean to burst into anger. But when Eggsy danced, there was only _now, now, now,_ and the harsh sound of his own heaving breath between the staves of the music. And he thought, _it was okay. It was going to be okay._

 

* * *

 

After Lee Unwin died, Eggsy’s mother had tried keeping Eggsy at Richmond Park. But even with his scholarship it was frightfully expensive; the shoes, the clothes, the uniform, the travel fares. (And sometimes, Eggsy knew that his mum cried in her room after seeing him dance). Then Dean Baker had entered their lives (“ _Boys don’t_ ballet _, muggsy!”_ ) and well, that was that. It was a rule enforced by sneers when Eggsy was younger; meaty slaps when he was caught practicing his splits.

Eggsy had learned quickly to hide his dancing gear away, and never to play Prokofiev out loud. But he didn’t stop dancing.

He used the school gym at first, staying late afterschool until the basketball team had finished their practice – when his classmates found out he had to bear the brunt of the teasing and bullying, and it became harder to practice when he was self conscious that people might be watching and laughing. He lied to Dean, said it was to study or that he had detention, or was hanging out with friends. His mother knew, but kept Eggsy’s secret for him.

Eggsy bought and re-sew his own shoes from e-bay. He hoarded £8 tickets to _Giselle_ and _The Sleeping Beauty_ at Covent Garden, leaning as far as he could from the metal railings until his throat ached. He watched youtube ballet lesson videos obsessively on his phone, staying as late as he dared at school or the local library for the internet data. He looked through his father’s old ballet programmes, and imagined the heat of stage lights on his face, warm and too bright like staring into the sun.

This worked for two and a half careful years.

Then Dean decided, one drunken evening, to pick Eggsy up from school. A sprained wrist and a broken nose later, Eggsy promised not to waste any more money or time on dancing.

He promptly began cleaning the local gym, and danced there instead.

 

* * *

 

                  _November._

Jamal was usually calm as rocks. But he was fidgeting now, hands in pockets, then out again, then in again –

“If you keep doin’ that I’m gonna sit on you,” said Eggsy.

Jamal breathed out a huge sigh through his nose.

“Well it’s a lot of responsibility innit?” he said, thrusting his hands back into the pocket of his hoodie, and then kept them there after a sidelong glance at Eggsy. It was a nice evening, free of rain for once, and they had opted to walk to the studio instead of spending money on the tube. Eggsy adjusted the shoulder strap of his camping bag.

“It’s five pictures. On your phone. It’ll take two seconds!”

“Yeah but what if I got shaky hands? What if they disqualify you ‘cus the photos are blurry?”

“They _won’t,_ ” said Eggsy, “you don’t get ‘disqualified’ at the paper round.”

“Why can’t _Ryan_ do it?”

“Cus his phone camera got cracked!”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Yeah. So quit whinging.”

They trudged on in companionable silence for a few minutes, before Jamal brightened at a thought.

“Ballerinas hot?” he said.

Eggsy shrugged.

“ _’_ sokay.”

Jamal gave him a narrowed eyed sort of look.

“The classes end earlier today so we got time, but it won’t take you long. Promise. I’ll get you a pint after.”

Jamal bumped Eggsy by the shoulder.

“Yeah?”

Eggsy grinned back.

“Yeah.”

 

* * *

 

                  _An hour later._

“You said this would take two seconds,” said Jamal from where he was sprawled in one of the mismatched chairs. Eggsy was tempted to up-end the entire bucket of dirty mop water over his head. “Two!”

“You could _help,_ ” he said, testily, wiping his hands on his trousers, “But I’m done now, no thanks to you. Just gimme a second, yeah.”

Propping the mop and bucket against the wall, Eggsy stripped off his dirty clothes and bent down to rifle through the bag for the clean clothes he had brought – his best white t-shirt, a new pair of tights, and the newest pair of second hand shoes he had.

Jamal wolf whistled when Eggsy pulled the tights on, and Eggsy spared the time to give him a half-hearted finger. Jamal laughed.

“Great ass, Eggsy,” he called across the studio.

“Fuck off,” said Eggsy, with no ire whatsoever. It was nice having company.

“Looks uncomfortable though,” said Jamal thoughtfully.

“Bit tight,” Eggsy admitted. He usually danced in shorts or loose pants, “have to have it for the photos though. They said so.”

He slid on the soft shoes with practiced movements, and set his pointe shoes out next to his bag. Jamal seemed to perk up in his chair.

“I thought it was just the girls that did the – “ Jamal made tip-toe motions with his finger tips, “- thing.”

“Yeah, ‘cus they’re badass,” said Eggsy, pressing down on his ankle to start his stretches, “You’ve seen me in them before.”

“Your feet were fucked up for weeks,” agreed Jamal. “But like, they want the guys to do that now too? At this school?”

Eggsy shook his head.

“Nah,” he said, “But I want to show them that I can.”

Then he turned, lifting himself up slightly so he could swing one leg back and ease down into the satisfying stretch of a full split. He heard an audible wince from Jamal, and then a hiss when Eggsy leaned back slowly so that his hand touched the arch of his back foot. He held the stretch for three breaths, before coming back up slowly, letting his spine uncurl.

Jamal looked like he always did on the rare occasions his friends saw him practice: slightly weirded out, mostly impressed.

Eggsy took pity on him and stood up.

“Okay,” he said, “Ready?”

Jamal waved his phone at him.

“Yep,” he said, popping the _p._

Eggsy smoothed back his hair and adjusted his t-shirt. Should he smile? He felt self conscious.

“Right. This is the first one. I’ll do it three times just in case.”

“ _Two seconds,_ ” said Jamal.

Eggsy glared at him. Jamal obediently sat up straight in his seat, steadying his elbow on the window ledge behind him and holding the other edge of the phone with his left hand.

“Lights! Camera!” he said.

The photographs were the easy bit, Eggsy knew. He knew all the position by heart since years ago: _demi plie_ , _tendu devant efface_ with arms in fourth, _a la seconde en l’air en face_ , and a side facing first arabesque. They took all the pictures without much fuss (except with the arabesque when Jamal received several texts in one go and Eggsy had to re-start since he was wobbling from holding the position for so long.

Once Eggsy was satisfied that the pictures looked sharp enough, he went to put on his pointe shoes. He wrapped his own toes quickly, pulling at the cloth to check that he hadn’t done them too tight, before sliding on the shoes and doing up the ribbons around his ankles. The blisters had mostly scarred, some still wet and clinging to his socks, skin raw and nails bruised.

“Right,” said Eggsy, getting back on his feet. He rolled feet slowly, one hand on the barre, feeling the wood against his curled toes. He always felt so high up; it used to make him so nervous. He let himself down and then rolled back onto pointe, in time with his breathing. Then he crossed his legs, eyeing the arch of his own ankles.

“You good?” asked Jamal, “Do they hurt a lot?”

Eggsy made his way back to the centre of the studio, and smirked.

“Nah,” he lied.

 

* * *

 

 

                  _Stanhope Mews South, Gloucester Road, London._

Harry gave Merlin a very flat look. It was so flat, one could have laid a carpet on it.

“You want to retire me.”

Merlin sipped his tea instead of answering, because he was a shit friend like that.

Harry glared some more.

“ _Well?_ ”

Merlin peered at him over the rim of his mug.

“That is not what I said.”

“That was what you _implied._ ”

“A temporary teaching post is not retirement, Harry.”

Harry kept glaring.

“Of course it is. It’s what every old codger does. Which, I should add, I am _not_ one.”

“It’s not even for an entire season. It’s during the break. Mostly.”

“You want to phase me out!” said Harry accusingly, “You’re just skipping over one rung of the ladder and feeding me straight to the toddlers.”

Merlin sighed again.

“They’re hardly toddlers, it’s the upper school you know,” he said, slowly and patiently in the tones of…well, someone talking to a toddler, “And you’d only be stepping in for those in their last year. It’s just until she comes back from maternity leave.

“You’re doing this because I refused to play grandpa Montague.”

“Harry.”

“No,” said Harry, resisting the urge to fold his arms.

“ _Harry._ ”

“No!”

They glared at each-other some more. Merlin made a move towards the teacup and Harry shifted it quickly out of reach with a triumphant look.

“Don’t think you can come here, retire me, and keep drinking my tea,” said Harry, settling back in his chair and pouring himself a fresh cup.

“Harry.”

“Repeating my name is not going to change my mind.”

“You do know it’s not up to _me_ to retire anyone, right? That is not what a choreographer does,” said Merlin, sounding peevish, “And you have the principal casting as Galahad next season, amongst others. How is _that_ a sign of –“

“Phasing me out,” muttered Harry again, but conceded the teapot.

They drank in silent commiseration for a few minutes.

“You’re not just the choreographer, Mr Ballet Master,” said Harry with a side-long glance.

Merlin rolled his eyes. _One day it was going to roll right off his bald head_ , thought Harry uncharitably.

“Technically,” Merlin began, “I’m only – “

Harry waved a hand to cut him off.

“Bollocks.”

They drank some more. The clock ticked over to four in the afternoon. A car honked in the street.

“I’m not old,” said Harry, after a while.

“But you’re not going to be dancing Franz or Romeo anytime soon,” said Merlin bluntly, “You’ve _already_ played Franz and Romeo.”

“And Siegfried.”

“And Siegfried,” agreed Merlin.

“And Albrecht,” Harry continued, “And Basilio. And – “

“I’m not sitting through your resume.”

“It’s only lengthy because it’s impressive – ”

Merlin snorted and cut into his scone. He put jam on one side, careful like a surgeon. Considered his weapon with the eye of someone who had more in mind than spreading fruit preserves.

“It’s lengthy because you’re getting on in years,” said Merlin.

Harry ploughed onwards.

“ _– and_ have I ever brought scandal upon this company? Have I not proved my worth? Have the tickets not sold like hot cakes? Have I not indulged in your bizarre contemporary productions? _Have I not danced in lycra for you?_ ”

Merlin ate his scone.

“ _Well?”_ said Harry again, looking a little manic. Perhaps Merlin had let him had one too many cups of caffeine. Even his cardigan was looking a bit more rumpled.

“At the very least least you could spend some more time with your understudies this season,” said Merlin, “instead of snobbing them off.”

Harry waved again.

“They were rubbish.”

“They were _not_ rubbish, I hand picked them from the soloists – “

“I’m having no hand in my own demise, thank you very much,” said Harry.

“You,” said Merlin, pointing his knife blade first at Harry. It quivered with smears of raspberry preserve. “are the worst diva. The absolute worst. You know that?”

“Maybe I’ll join the New York ballet instead,” said Harry, “Natasha and I still have dinners when she’s in town, you know. We get along marvellously.”

“You hate New York,” said Merlin dismissively. He paused. “And Moscow.”

“Maybe I hate _you_ more,” said Harry.

“ _Maybe_ you should come help me with the auditions like a good friend ought,” said Merlin, stabbing his used knife straight back into the preserve pot with vengeance.

Harry almost leapt across the table, eyes manic.

“You’ll get _crumbs in the jam you twat!”_

And that set the tone for the rest of the afternoon. Company business would have to wait.

 

* * *

>  
> 
> _Convent Garden, London.  
>  Two and a half months later._

Eggsy didn’t like dancing on a full stomach at the best of times. When he was nervous, he tended to unintentionally fast. At least he had the sense to gulp down some yoghurt and toast this morning, though that had been at six and it was now past lunch time.

His stomach made a passive aggressive noise. Eggsy ignored it.

He felt out of place, from his tatty bag and cap to his sneakers. He had only brought his audition letter (which he had mailed to Jamal’s house instead), a bottle of water and two muesli bars. Both were untouched.

Eggsy joined the line, checking the time on his phone. He was fifteen minutes early. Breathing out a slow breath, Eggsy looked around him as they queued at the desk.

There were less people than he had imagined for a preliminary audition, and all too soon he was handing over his sheet and receiving an audition number, two large squares printed with the number “27” to pin to his shirt.

He followed the rest of the boys up the stairs, past a few green rooms to a wide spacious studio, doors open. Along one wall were two rows of chairs, and everyone else were either already changed or in the process of putting down their things. Eggsy found a spare chair towards the corner of the room and set his bag down, quickly pulling off his jacket and track pants – he had come dressed underneath.

Eggsy pinned one of the numbers to his chest without much problem, and was contemplating twisting his shirt around so he could pin it to the back when someone cleared their throat.

He looked up. It was a red headed boy with a slanted grin roughly three million freckles. Number twelve. His hair was combed back neatly with gel.

“I’ll do you if you do me,” he said.

“Uh,” said Eggsy, “Sure. Thanks,” handing over his number.

“I’m John, by the way,” said Number Twelve.

“Eggsy,” said Eggsy automatically.

“Which school are you from?” asked John cheerfully, “I’m in Farringdon.”

“Um,” said Eggsy, feeling his face colour up with the imminent lie, “Camden. Near the waterworks.”

“Nice to find someone who isn’t from Richmond Park.”

“Mmhm,” said Eggsy.

John handed Eggsy his number, and Eggsy used it as an excuse to preoccupy himself. He wondered vaguely what would happen if he accidentally stabbed a fellow competitor with a safety pin.

“Thanks,” said John, sticking out his hand. Eggsy shook it. “Good luck!”

Numbly, Eggsy nodded.

 

 

They were all called to the barre. Eggsy didn’t try to fight his way to the front, instead taking his place behind Number Thirty Three and tried to keep his palms dry.

The audition was more or less a ‘standard’ ballet class, beginning with familiar warm ups and then more rigorous positions. There was an upright piano in the corner, black and glossy, and Eggsy could just make out someone’s head.

The examiners walked up and down the rows, sometimes correcting posture, mostly just smiling. Eggsy tried to concentrate on nothing but his own body, spine pulled taut.

“Relax a little,” said the lady, tapping Eggsy’s shoulders and demonstrating with her own. Eggsy blushed and tried to copy her – which earned an approving smile before she moved on.

They were then split into smaller groups for the centre practice, including their pirouettes. Some of the dancers were smoother than others; but everyone looked practiced and fairly at ease. This probably wasn’t their first audition.

Eggsy ran almost on autopilot, far too aware of the heat of his own palms in the air-conditioned room, the bright lights and the squeaky-smooth floors. The winter afternoon light was white and clear outside; for once with no rain.

And all of a sudden, they were doing their _tours en l’air_ in rows of four and counts of three – and then everyone was clapping and moving back towards the chairs to collect their things.

It was over.

Eggsy couldn’t see Number 12 anywhere, and Eggsy took the numbers off his own shirt and pulled his jacket back over his shoulders. He put his soft shoes back into his bag, took a long drink of water, staring at an old framed production poster near the double doors. It was signed, and he could make out a few of the familiar signatures ( _Natasha Romanova, Harry Hart, Eve Moneypenny_ ).

He felt a sudden, welling desperation: he wanted to dance in this room by himself, quiet and alone, with its big square windows and elevated ceiling. He wanted to play Phillip Glass from the piano and Prokofiev as loud as he liked. He _wanted_ –

Eggsy made his way back down the stairs.

 

* * *

 

                 

> _Alexandra Road Estate, South Hampstead.  
>  One month later_

Eggsy was good at waiting.

It wasn’t that he was patient. His calm and inertia was a learned one. After all, Eggsy had waited a long time for his father to come home. He had waited for his mother to get better. He had waited to go back to Richmond Park, had waited for the new job his mother promised ( _‘It’s just for a tiny bit, love, I’m sure something will turn up soon, okay?’_ ), waited.

He had spent countless hours waiting for the crash after the shout, the slam after the crash and the slap after his name was called. He waited outside the apartment block sometimes, watching the little yellow rectangle of light that was his mums and Dean’s room. Waited until it went out, then waited some more before daring to sneak back inside.

Eggsy was good at waiting.

It didn’t mean he _liked_ it.

He was running out of data to keep refreshing his email. Bizarrely, the text came first. It was from Jamal.

> **To Eggsy: _u got in2 nxt round!!!!!_**
> 
> **To Eggsy: _it says final. Sounds scary._**
> 
> **To Jamal: _!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_**

“Take a picture of the letter and show me,” Eggsy demanded as soon as Jamal picked up his phone.

“Why,” said Jamal.

“Because I _said_ so,” said Eggsy, left leg jigging up and down in agitation, “Come _on!”_

“Alrigh’al _right_ – jeez you whinger. Gimme a sec.”

There was the sound of rustling paper ( _“Don’t BEND it!”_ ), and then the in-phone sound of a camera click before Eggsy’s mobile pinged cheerfully. He switched to his earphones to swipe open the attachment. He felt like his heart was going to thump right out of his throat.

“Fuck me,” said Eggsy.

He stared at the slightly blurry picture. After a moment he realised that Jamal was still talking.

“…Eggsy?”

“Yeah,” said Eggsy, “Yeah I mean – it’s not. It’s only the second round. Have’ta wait ‘til March.”

“But one step closer,” said Jamal, re-cementing why he was the best friend ever, “Think of all them posh tossers who spent a fortune going to classes. You beat all of them!” He cackled loudly over the speakers.

“Not _all_ ,” said Eggsy.

“I’m _trying_ to be excited for you,” said Jamal.

“Sorry, sorry,” said Eggsy, and he knew his grin translated through the phone.

There was a brief pause.

“So you think my photography skills deserve another pint or what,” said Jamal.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was written a while ago as a artbook collab, but I never posted it. So here it is. Find fishwrites and rachelhuey88 on tumblr under the same names.


End file.
